


self-titled

by dinglehoppersaplenty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Frottage, Gen, M/M, Other, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, Rock Stars, Sharing a Bed, stick'n'poke tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinglehoppersaplenty/pseuds/dinglehoppersaplenty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Scott picked up his first guitar when he was thirteen years old, he never thought it would lead him here.</p><p>“Here” being a stage where he’s playing music with his best friends, while the sold-out stadium crowd sings his own words right back to him.</p><p>It’s a rush, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	self-titled

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: description of stiles of having a panic attack; detailed description of the at-home tattooing process; they smoke pot and drink alcohol; a decent amount of cursing; mentions of dealing with homo-/biphobia
> 
> inspired by the art of the lovely imbeelingwithit for the sciles reversebang
> 
> beta'd by the wonderful moonybloom
> 
> also comes with its own soundtrack, with cover art by imbeelingwithit [found here](http://8tracks.com/dinglehoppersaplenty/self-titled)!!

***

When Scott picked up his first guitar when he was thirteen years old, he never thought it would lead him here. “Here” being backstage at Madison Square Garden with his best friends, about to play a sold-out show for the second night in a row.

It’s almost time for one of his favorite parts: the moment before they step on stage, when the lights go down and the crowd noise swells. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, wraps his hands around his guitar, and waits for the countdown in his earpiece.

“Scotty.”

He jumps at the sound of Stiles’ voice, opening his eyes to see him close. He’s wearing one of his old Beacon Hills shirts, an old pair of jeans, his old Adidas. It’s no different than what he usually wears, but the details tell Scott: _I miss home._

Scott does, too. It’s the last stop of their tour, a long one that started off with a bang (literally—there was a cannon) at Coachella in April, meandering down into South America before hopping over the Pacific to do a round in Australia and Asia, making their way back West through Europe and North America to end now, in almost October, with two nights at Madison Square Garden. It’s been a long time, a hard tour. Scott has been ready to go home and sleep in his own bed since July.

But considering how Stiles is supposed to be in the wings on the other side with Kira, the way Stiles has got his lip between his teeth, his drumsticks tight in his grip, his eyes anywhere but Scott, tells Scott something is up. It’s more than homesickness. Stiles looks… nervous.

“What’s up?” Scott finally asks, even as he hears someone ask where Stiles is on his earpiece.

“I just wanted to…” Stiles looks lost for words, pressured by the voices in their ears, the cheering on the other side of the stage. Scott doesn’t look away from him. Finally, Stiles meets his eyes, but Scott can’t read his expression. Wordlessly, Stiles offers his fist.

Not entirely sure what’s happening but rolling with it anyway, Scott bumps Stiles’ fist with his own, grinning reflexively, as the shouting gets louder in their ears. “Ready to fucking kill it?”

“Always,” Stiles says with an easy grin. He hesitates, then bumps their knuckles once more before he turns, heading back to his position; Scott watches him jog away until the tunnel blocks his vision. He must get back to his spot okay, because there’s a harried voice in his ear suddenly counting down.

“All right, we go dark in five. Four.”

Scott closes his eyes again.

“Three. Two.”

The house lights go down, and the crowd roars. It’s a strange rush, the force of so many voices, so many bodies. Opening his eyes, Scott feels a mad grin spread across his face. “One.”

***

“What’s the first thing you’re gonna buy when you’re famous?”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Scott says, letting his head tip to the side, grinning a little in Stiles’ direction. Stiles isn’t really looking though, his eyes definitely closed. From the way the air mattress is situated on the floor, he looks like he’s sunbathing in the white light of the nearly full moon; it makes him look even paler.

Stiles somehow manages to roll his eyes even with them closed. “If you were _rich_ , what would be the first thing you’d buy?”

Scott looks back up at the ceiling, considering for a moment. Then he shrugs and turns back to Stiles. “I dunno.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Stiles replies, finally opening his eyes to look at Scott. “That’s no way to become a rock star.”

“Rock star?” he scoffs. “Since when am I becoming a rock star?”

“Since you were thirteen and wanted to sing a guy his favorite song for his birthday.”

“That was for _you_ , dumbass,” Scott says, raising himself up on his elbow, wishing they hadn’t gotten too big to share his twin bed so he could reach and punch Stiles in the shoulder.

“I know, and now look at you!” Stiles says over the noise of the air mattress as he turns over. It has an audible leak; Stiles will wake up on a mostly-empty sack of rubber in the morning. “Writing songs for girly-friends? Pouring your heart out through song? Managing to be charming when you’re halfway to hoodlum?” Stiles flops back, air hissing out dramatically as he starfishes across the mattress. “You are rock star _gold_ , man. You are everything the teenage-to-mid-twenty-something girls want.”

Scott had never really thought about it like that before. He loves playing, he really does, but too often he hears a voice that sounds an awful lot like his dad telling him it’s a waste of time, and shouldn’t get too invested in it. He plays anyway, of course, but he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get _famous_.

He frowns out the window for a minute, then says, “What about you?”

The air mattress squeaks and hisses as Stiles shrugs. “I’ve got a devil-may-care attitude and high energy, girls’ll love me. And, the chicks always dig drummers.”

Scott grins and looks over at Stiles; he’s got his hands behind his head, a smirk on his face. “Oh, so you’re gonna be a rock star too?”

“Hell yeah, man. I’ll be right there next to you the whole way. We’ll be the bromance of the century.”

Scott laughs, and then there’s rustling, a mild hissing; Stiles must have shrugged. “I dunno. If nothing else, I’ll ride on your coattails and be your loser best friend in your entourage.”

“That’s no way to become a rock star,” Scott teases.

“At least I know what I’m doing when I get rich,” Stiles shoots back. Scott raises an eyebrow, and even though Stiles can’t see it, he knows it’s happening. “After I pay off my dad’s mortgage, I’m gonna buy a penthouse in L.A.”

“A penthouse?”

“What’s wrong with a penthouse?”

“Stiles, you hate heights.”

***

Everyone’s energy is high tonight. There’s been something in the air all day, a ‘last day of school’ feel to it all; everyone’s been talking about how excited they are to be going home, what they’ll be doing for their breaks, how they might spend the holidays a couple months from now. There’s been a lot of tears, a lot of hugs, a lot of laughter. By all accounts they should all be exhausted, but maybe that’s what’s giving them their edge of hysteria.

The lights are bright and the crowd is pulsing, and Scott feels invincible, like he could play for days, stuck in this feedback loop of energy. Kira is practically glowing from her side of the stage, the lights playing over the glitter on her skin, the purple in her hair. Isaac keeps jumping around, making faces at the crowd, the band, anyone he sets eyes on. The way they’re set up, Scott can’t see Stiles that often, but every time he catches sight of Stiles’ face, he’s grinning.

This is it, he thinks. This is one of those nights they’ll remember forever.

***

Stiles is having a panic attack, and Scott doesn’t know what to do. Stiles is shaking, gasping for breath, his hands clutched so hard around his drumsticks Scott is surprised they aren’t broken.

Their gig starts in an hour, and Scott doesn’t know what to _do_.

“Stiles,” Scott says gently. “Stiles, look at me.”

Stiles shakes his head a little, keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

Scott takes a deep breath. He shakes his own head, hands hovering helplessly over Stiles. “What—what can I _do_?” he says finally, when Stiles’ breathing only gets faster.

“Just—” Stiles takes a few quick breaths through his nose, like he’s trying to calm down, then shakes his head again. “Give me a sec.”

So Scott leans back, settles down cross-legged in front of Stiles. “Okay,” he says, resisting the urge to put a hand on Stiles’ knee. “I’m right here, buddy.”

Stiles makes a pained sound, thumping his head back against the wall.

There’s nothing but the sound of Stiles’ harsh breaths for a moment, echoing hollowly down the alley. Scott is surprised they can’t hear the band in the bar their gig is in, but it’s. Quiet.

Scott itches, not knowing what to do. He scratches his nose, and it oddly reminds him of something. “Do you remember the first song we ever wrote together?”

Stiles’ pained face takes on a confused tone. “What?”

“That song we did for the talent show in fifth grade?” He still looks confused, so Scott breaks out into the tune. _“I love you so much I would pick your nose for you, I love you so much I would pick your nose for you—“_

He breaks off because Stiles starts laughing. It sounds kind of like a sobbing, too, but Scott’ll take it.

“I can’t believe we actually thought we were gonna get in with that,” Scott says, smiling.

Stiles is still breathing hard, but it’s slowing down, and he’s wearing the ghost of a smile. “I can’t believe you didn’t let me do that awesome drum solo I wanted. We would’ve totally made it then.”

“Sorry,” Scott says, unapologetically.  “I don’t think we were gonna make it either way.”

“The world wasn’t ready for us,” Stiles says wistfully. His voice is still a little shaky, but his knuckles aren’t white around his drumsticks anymore.

Finally, he opens his eyes. Scott grins. “Hey, man.”

Stiles groans a little and hits his head against the wall again as he breathes in deeply. He sighs just as deeply, and then drags a hand over his face as he takes a few more breaths. “Sorry,” he says, a little muffled.

“S’okay,” Scott says easily. He taps the ground in front of him, between Stiles’ feet. “You gonna be okay?”

“I can still play,” Stiles says quickly, “I can do the set.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Sighing again, Stiles kicks out one leg, to the side of Scott’s knee. “I dunno,” he says finally. “This…” He waves a hand to indicate the bar and the record producer inside. If she likes them enough, she’ll record an EP with them, maybe even sign a contract. “This is kind of huge, Scott.”

Scott can see Stiles’ point, but also? “It’s just another gig. There will be another one.”

“But not one like _this_ ,” Stiles hisses earnestly. “What if we don’t get signed? What if we _do_?”

Scott grabs Stiles’ knee and shakes his leg a little. “Naw, man, you can’t look at it that way. It’s just another gig, okay? We know this set, you could play it in your sleep.”

Stiles just nods, absently looking down the alley. Letting out an exasperated noise, Scott shifts, rising up onto his knees to grab Stiles’ face in his hands, forcing the other boy to look at him. “Listen to me for a sec, okay?” he says forcefully, shaking Stiles’ head a bit. Stiles blinks, then nods the best he can in Scott’s grip.

“You are the best drummer I know, man. You got this. If that producer lady doesn’t like us, then it’s just not our time yet, okay dude?”

“But what if—”

“Now is not the time for what ifs,” he says sternly. “It’ll work out the way it’s supposed to.”

He squishes Stiles’ cheeks between his hands, his lips pouting out like a fish. Scott can’t help but laugh, and when Stiles frowns, Scott leans forward and smacks a slightly wet kiss to the wrinkles that crease Stiles’ forehead.

“Now c’mon, before Isaac gets into a fight with the other band again.”

***

“Hey New York, how’re y’all doing tonight?” Scott yells into the microphone, and grins even wider when the crowd swells with cheers and screams. “Ahh, that sound is music to my ears, you’re all fuckin’ _amazing_.”

The crowd cheers again, and he shouts over them, “We are The Foxes and The Hounds!” but still has to pause when the crowd roars even louder, this time accompanied with howling. He laughs a little into the mic and looks out over the crowd.

For a moment, he almost wants to pinch himself, make sure he isn’t having an elaborate dream.

“So, I dunno about you, but I feel _good_ tonight. Are you guys feelin’ it too?” The crowd cheers again, but he’s looking to his bandmates. “Isaac?”

Isaac braces his arms on the neck and body of his bass, biting his lip as he looks out over the crowd. Then he leans down to his own mic, eyes probably locked with some poor helpless fan. “Yeah, man, I’m feelin’ real good about tonight.”

Scott chuckles as he turns to his right to look at Kira. “Kira, my foxy lady!”

She flutters her eyelashes, leans into the microphone over her keyboards. “Oh, Scott, please, stop,” she says, but she tilts her head toward him and makes a ‘keep going’ motion with her hand.

“My lady, my queen, my goddess divine!” He ends up shouting, the noise of the crowd swelling with each new endearment. She pretends to blush, pretends to tell them to stop but keep going at the same time.

She’s laughing into the mic as she turns back to Scott. “You called?”

He can’t stop grinning, incredibly proud to know these people. “My friend, how are you tonight?”

“I’m good, Scott, I’m real good,” she says easily, playing a quick, jazzy little lick before ending on one of her favorite major chords.

He tilts his head back and laughs some more, hanging onto the microphone. He looks above him, the lights burning bright above him, as he lets the sound of the crowd wash over him. He closes his eyes, his vision burnt white for a moment, as he leans back into the mic. “Stiles, you there, man?”

Stiles kicks the bass drum once, twice, then hits the snare. “Yeah, I’m right here, Scotty,” he says into his microphone. When Scott looks back he sees Stiles looking at Scott, spinning one of his drumsticks in his hand. “What’s up, buddy?”

Scott can’t help but grin back. “Not much, how ‘bout you, man?”

Stiles laughs into the mic, and Scott feels it echo in his chest. “I’m fucking—awesome,” Stiles says.

“Damn right you are,” Scott says as he turns back to the crowd. He’s not sure he can stop smiling. “Alright, how about we play some more fucking _music_?” he yells at them, and doesn’t wait for the cheers to subside before he plays the opening lick to the next song.

***

“Did you—were you _stashing_ that somewhere on the tour bus?” Stiles asks incredulously as Scott emerges from the bunks, brandishing an ink-stained shot glass and a half-used bottle of India ink in one hand and an almost-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol in the other.

“Of course not,” Scott lies easily as he wobbly folds down cross-legged in front of where Stiles is sitting on the couch. A pack of needles, a cup of water, and a roll of paper towels are already sitting there, and Scott sets down the rest of the supplies next to them so he can take the bowl and lighter from Stiles.

“I can’t believe I’m actually letting you do this,” Stiles says, voice tight around his lungful of smoke.

Scott is in the middle of inhaling, so he doesn’t respond as he finishes the hit and offers the bowl to Isaac, who had made himself comfortable in the breakfast nook to watch the proceedings with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He waves it off, so Scott places both items on the couch next to Stiles for Kira when she comes back.

“You still sure?” Scott asks eventually through a cloud of smoke, dropping ink into the stained shot glass, and Stiles flexes his hands where they’re perched on his knees.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Totally, one hundred percent sure.”

Scott grins, plucks the pen he’d been using to draw on Stiles earlier out from between Stiles’ leg and the arm of the couch. He sticks the end of it in his mouth as he picks up the needles, then looks around.

“Do we have any tape?” he asks around the pen, looking first to Stiles, then Isaac, who both shake their heads. He plucks the pen out of his mouth as he yells, “Kira! We need tape, too!”

She makes a wordless noise that Scott assumes means she heard him.

“This better be the fucking best tattoo you’ve ever given anyone,” Stiles says, as he watches Scott open the rubbing alcohol and pour a small amount into the cap.

Scott laughs a little, mostly focusing on not spilling everywhere. “Trust me,” he says, patting Stiles’ knee once the liquid is safe on the floor. “Kira!” he yells, just as she’s emerging from the beaded curtain separating the bunks from the living area.

“Calm down,” she says with a smile, tossing a handful of moist towelettes from the first aid kit at Scott’s head. He doesn’t react, letting them scatter around as she moves to sit on the couch.

“Did you find tape?” he asks, and she shakes her head as she settles down, Stiles catching the bowl before it tips off the couch.

“No, here,” she says, pulling a hairtie off her wrist and holding it out for him. Once Scott takes it, she takes the bowl off Stiles, digging for the lighter in the cushion.

“So this is your first tattoo?” she asks Stiles around a lungful of smoke, while Scott busies himself with attaching the needle to the pen.

He can feel Stiles’ eyes on the sharp point, so he hides it behind his hand for a second, looking up to catch Stiles’ eye and tease, “Yeah, our buddy Stiles here is a virgin.”

“Viirrrgiiiin,” Isaac sings, smirking, from his spot at the table; it echoes a little in his bottle before he takes a drink.

Stiles sputters, his cheeks blotching red, and Kira’s laugh turns into a cough, smoke clouding the air between them. Eventually Stiles resorts to rolling his eyes and flipping Isaac off before taking the bowl from Kira.

Meanwhile, Scott has finished getting the needle tied to the pen and is dipping the point in the cap of rubbing alcohol. Once Stiles has the bowl lit, Scott beckons for the lighter, and Stiles hands it over as he inhales deeply, his cheeks hollowing out around the other end of the pipe.

“Is that what you’re getting?” Kira says, reaching for Stiles’ outstretched arm and pulling it into her lap, jostling Stiles enough that he pulls the bowl away from his mouth for a second. Scott blinks and turns to the items in his hands, flicking the lighter on and holding the needle over it.

“Yeah,” Stiles says thickly, “that’s it,” before bringing the bowl back up to his mouth to finish inhaling while Kira examines the doodle Scott had done. It’s a stick man playing guitar, small and perched on the back of Stiles’ wrist. It looks pretty rad, if Scott says so himself.

He dabs the needle in the rubbing alcohol again, then holds it out. “Kira, hold this for a minute? Don’t touch the needle.”

She takes the pen, careful of the needle on the end, and Scott goes for one of the antibacterial wipes scattered around him. “Alright, gimme your hand,” he says, setting his left hand palm-up on Stiles’ knee, while he uses his teeth to tear open the packet.

“That’s not very sanitary,” Stiles points out, but gives Scott his hand anyway. Scott just gives him a look as he wipes down the back of Stiles’ wrist, smudging the ink a bit. “Just sayin’.”

Tossing the wipe aside, Scott plucks the pen out of Kira’s offering hand. As he dips it in the ink, Stiles loose grip on his hand tightens, and he looks up. Stiles’ eyes are on the needle again.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Stiles’ gaze snaps to his. His eyes are weed-glazed but wide, nervous. He squeezes Stiles’ hand once, feeling the calluses on Stiles’ palm, and strokes his thumb over the tendons on the back of his hand.  Stiles squeezes back. “You don’t actually have to do this right now, you know,” he says, still quiet.

Stiles starts shaking his head before Scott even finishes. He squeezes Scott’s hand again, _I’m good_ , and then says, “I’m not gonna be the only untattooed member of this band.”

Kira laughs at that, and Scott hides his own smile by looking back down at Stiles’ hand. He scoots closer, getting a better grip, and carefully uses the dipped point to trace along the first line he plans to make. Without pausing, he makes the first poke.

Stiles flinches sharply, jerking his arm and letting out a surprised noise.

Scott keeps his grip, having expected this reaction, and quirks his eyebrow up at him. “You good?” he says, a laugh in his throat.

“Dick,” Stiles shoots back. He flexes his wrist, first up and down, then in a circle; Scott feels some of the tendons move under his fingers. He flexes his hand, once, twice, then grips Scott’s hand tightly again. “Okay,” he says, closing his eyes and turning his head away slightly. “Go for it.”

He flinches again when Scott makes the second poke, but it’s nothing more than a light twitch and a short hiss, so Scott keeps going, poking rapidly and following the line he’d outlined in ink. Once he’s gone over the line three times, he looks up.

“How you feelin’, buddy?” he asks as he dips the needle back into the ink.

“Peachy,” Stiles says with a grimace, still not looking, and Scott traces over another line with the ink.

“At least you haven’t passed out,” Isaac chimes in. Scott gives him a warning look, while Stiles flips him off, again.

“Passed out?” Kira prompts, and Stiles heaves a sigh, tipping his head back against the couch.

“When Scott got his first tattoo I went with him.” He winces when Scott starts poking again. “Passed out. End of story.”

She gives him a sympathetic pout, then pulls his free hand into her lap, cradled between both of her hands. “We’ll take good care of you, even if you pass out.”

Opening his eyes, Stiles looks oddly touched. “Thanks.”

They’re all quiet as Scott continues with the tattoo; Stiles’ occasional cut-off hisses of pain are the only sounds until Isaac pulls out his phone and starts playing some music. It’s nice, though. Their lives are always so loud, with playing and going to bars and parties and events, and filled with so much _talking_ , with managers and fans and interviewers, Scott doesn’t feel like he ever gets any quiet.

The rhythmic motions of the bus underneath them makes it a little tricky, but Scott enjoys the challenge, making him focus on what he’s doing more. He knows if he didn’t, he’d probably get distracted, by the minute tickings of Stiles’ hand, or Stiles’ leg flexing underneath, or maybe he’d keep looking up too often and get distracted by the continuous flexing of Stiles’ jaw. (He likes the way this angle makes Stiles’ jaw look, so sue him.)

But instead he focuses, gets into the rhythm of outlining and poking, and soon enough, he’s finished with the first round. He blows on it gently, then strokes his thumb underneath it before releasing his grip. “Don’t touch that for a minute,” he says, and Stiles raises his eyebrow as he flexes his hand.

“You think I’m gonna _touch_ it?”

As he tears off a paper towel and wipes the needle, Scott shakes his head, smirking, because he’s well aware of Stiles’ tendency to poke at injuries just to wince at them and moan about them.

“You can’t itch at it while it’s healing, either,” he says, as he reaches for the bowl that had ended up on the couch between Kira and Stiles.

He glares at Scott as he rolls his wrist out, and Scott smiles the best he can around the bowl as he’s inhaling. He offers the bowl to Isaac again, and he scoots around the table to take it. When the bowl gets to Stiles, he takes it and inhales with relish. He tips his head back against the seat again as he exhales, handing the bowl off to Kira.

“You need a cigarette?” Isaac asks, even though Stiles is quitting; he’s already got his pack flipped open, fingers digging inside.

“Yes,” Stiles says instantly, opening his eyes and reaching his hand out. Isaac hands one over, and Stiles steals the lighter as the bowl is on its way back to Scott.

He waits until the bowl has reached Stiles again to reach for the paper towels. “Okay, we’re gonna see where this is at,” he says, tearing off a couple and folding them up. He dips the folded square in the cup of water, then takes Stiles’ hand to dab at the dried ink on Stiles’ skin, careful of the reddened, irritated area all around the tattoo. “If it’s taken well, then it should only take one or two more times.”

“You mean we have to do it _again_?” Stiles whines. “I thought these things were like a one and done thing.”

“If you wanted it to look like shit, sure,” Scott replies, tossing the used and wet paper towels aside. The tattoo looks good, so far; they’d have to go one more time, for sure, and probably only a touch-up on the third round.

When he tells Stiles this, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Ugh, fine, go for it,” he says, and Scott knows he probably shouldn’t be so amused, but he can’t help it. He rolls his lips into his mouth, but he can still feel the muscles in his cheeks twitching.

“God, I hate you so much,” Stiles says through gritted teeth as Stiles starts poking again.

Scott grins.

***

As Kira is putting on her guitar, Scott turns to the crowd. “Ugh,” he says, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s fucking hot up here,” he tells them, fanning himself with his shirt. “Are you guys hot?”

He receives a dull roar in response, and nods in sympathy as he looks over at Kira. She sticks her tongue out, tuning her B string, and Scott turns back to the crowd to buy her more time. He hangs onto his mic stand as he squints out into the crowd, trying to read some fan’s sign that he spots a few rows back. “What does that say?” he asks, pointing it out, and the fans stop waving it around for a second. “’Get a real job, you dicks,’” he recites, and makes a mock-offended face. “Excuse me?”

“How. Dare you,” Stiles adds, leaning heavily into his mic. Scott looks back to grin at him, but Stiles is winking at the fans who have the sign.

“Yeah, you think it’s easy to play all day and party all night?” Scott continues as he turns back into the mic. “Our rock star lifestyles are hard fucking work.”

He’s only half-kidding; being a rock star has its perks, of course, what with the money and the fame and the getting paid to make music with his best friends bit, but sometimes…it was exhausting. Sometimes all he really wants to do is lay in bed, not play another show or give another interview.

He gets out of bed and does it anyway of course, because he’s not stupid, and he’s not ungrateful. And for the most part, nights like this make it worth it. He loves their fans so much ; he owes them everything. He wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for them.

“Okay, real talk though, can I get that sign up here by the end of the night? I’m gonna hang it up in my living room.”

***

Paparazzi are the worst part of it, Scott thinks. He can’t even go out to lunch with a friend without it ending up in at least three different magazines and four different websites, with thousands of Twitter and Instagram mentions.

“Anything you’d like to share?” Lydia says from behind her large, dark, imposing desk, gesturing at the magazines spread across it. They’re opened to the pages dedicated to various pictures of him with Allison Argent a few weeks ago. They had hugged goodbye outside the restaurant, and there are at least half a dozen different angles of the same three moments, their bodies pressed close. The headlines all allude to some kind of rekindled romance between the two of them.

Scott remembers that moment, the sweet scent of her hair and the soft press of her body against his. He’d squeezed her, once, then let her go with a grin. It had been good to see her after so many months, good to catch up, just—good.

In the photos, his and Allison’s bodies are a startling contrast; they look like they don’t belong anywhere near each other. She’s gorgeous as usual, casually stylish, all soft curves, dark hair and pale skin in a light blue dress; everything like the starlet she is. He looks like he crawled out of a trashcan.

Okay, he doesn’t look _that_ bad, but he’s also definitely hiding his greasy hair under his beanie and there are rips in his jeans and he’d had Kira paint his nails black the night before. Everything like the rock star he’s supposed to be, he guesses.

There’s also the problem of a very large, very _obvious_ hickey on Scott’s neck, which at least three of the magazines have helpfully circled and enlarged. Their headlines are the worst, acting shocked about Allison’s handiwork, that she would even leave a hickey, but Scott knows better; like _Allison Argent_ would leave a hickey where someone could _see it_. No. That was definitely Stiles’ work.

Scott sighs and leans back into Lydia’s uncomfortable chair. “Lunch.”

“You ate _that_ for lunch?” Lydia says skeptically, her eyebrow rising as she inspects the different angles of Allison’s body, like she’s trying to decide if Allison Argent would actually taste any good. (She does taste good. She tastes amazing, actually, but that’s beside the point.)

Scott rolls his eyes. “I went to lunch. With a _friend_.”

“Is that all you are?” Lydia presses, because that’s the whole point of this impromptu meeting in the first place.

“Yes,” Scott says dully. “We’re not even pretending to date anymore.” That had been a terrible four months of interviews that Scott never wanted to repeat.

“That’s too bad,” Lydia says, turning one of the magazines towards her. “You two make a cute couple.” Then she hums, an interested note, and Scott suddenly has a bad feeling. One of her long red nails taps one of those enlarged pictures showing the mark on his neck. “So, if Allison Argent didn’t do this… who did?”

 _That_ question might be the whole point of this meeting, actually. Scott swallows, shifting uncomfortably, and hits the bruise Stiles left on his hip this morning on the arm of the chair. He tries not to make a face. The look on Lydia’s face, carefully curious, makes Scott think she already knows the answer, and is just waiting for him to walk into her trap. “Um. No one?”

Lydia looks very unimpressed with his attempt to dodge. “I need to know what _idiot_ left that huge ugly hickey on you so I can wring their neck for the shitstorm I’ve had to put up with.”

“It was nothing,” Scott starts, even though it was kind of something. When Scott had told Stiles he was going for lunch with Allison, he’d gone for Scott’s neck with a single-minded determination. It had been hot, until Scott looked in the mirror the next morning. “He was just—messing around. Being stupid.”

Lydia’s carefully plucked eyebrow arches, and Scott realizes his mistake. His hand clenches around the armrest of the chair; his chest is getting tight. He blows out a breath, willing his heart rate to go down, as he waits for Lydia’s response.

“And will he continue to be this stupid?” she finally asks.

It’s Scott’s turn to arch an eyebrow. He can’t tell if she’s talking about him or Stiles. Either way, “It won’t happen again.”

There’s a long, tense moment where she just looks at him. He feels like she can see every place Stiles has ever marked him, his mouth and hands always greedy, and Scott wants to cover his neck, even though the bruise has faded. His chest goes tighter. He might need his inhaler soon.

“Good,” is all she says in the end. Scott takes a deep breath, relieved she’s not asking any more questions he’s not ready to answer. He watches as she flips the magazines shut and stacks them in front of her, evening them out with a sharp tap to the desk. “I want you to go out with Allison again before the end of the tour.”

“What.”

Lydia looks at him. Sharply.

“Why? We’re not even—she’s dating some publicist, she said!” Scott says, throwing up his hands.

“I know,” Lydia says mildly, setting the magazines down and folding her hands over them. “But your image needs this right now.”

His eyes were rolling before he could even actually think to do so. It wasn’t as if they all had the cleanest of images to begin with; they were a _rock band_. Honestly, out of all of them, Scott’s image was probably the most respectable: there were more than a few videos of Isaac smoking weed and getting rowdy at bars; Kira had punched a pap once when he wouldn’t stop harassing her; and Stiles was their reigning king of scandals, when that video of him drunkenly kissing a guy at a bar last fall had forced him out of the closet. Scott had only ever been a bit too drunk in public a couple of times.

“Don’t give me that,” Lydia says, also rolling her eyes. “Be thankful Allison is even agreeing to this.”

“ _I_ don’t agree to this,” he says petulantly, crossing his arms. He doesn’t see why they have to do this. He’s been _fine_. Sure, he could list off a few… riskier things he’s done lately, but none of it had gotten out; no one had _seen_. No one who would tell, anyway. Even with these photos, there was no proof of who actually made the hickey. It was all just. Speculation.

“I don’t care,” Lydia says with a smile. “There are a lot of rumors flying around, so it’s best that we contain this.”

“I just don’t see the point,” he huffs. “Our tour is sold out and our last album went platinum, what else do you want from me?”

“I want you to consider whether you want to come out of the closet on your own terms or someone else’s,” Lydia says breezily, and Scott freezes with his mouth open. Then she adds, “Maybe you could ask Stiles about what that’s like,” and his mouth snaps shut. He doesn’t have to ask.

He knows what it’s been like for Stiles. They’re supposed to be promoting their album, but this entire press tour has been nothing but dodging a startling amount of biphobia and fielding invasive questions about Stiles’ sexuality, his dating history, his preferences. Scott has seen that ugly, grainy video too many times. It’s been exhausting, especially for Stiles.

“If you want me to call a press conference, just let me know,” Lydia says, almost gently. “You’ve been taking some risks lately, and the last time—”

“I know what happened last time,” Scott says shortly, glaring at her. She glares right back.

“All it takes is one phone call,” she says, lifting a delicate, manicured finger to emphasize. “One call, and I can have every major media outlet in the country with a microphone on you.”

Scott swallows heavily, looking down at his knees. That’s… a lot of microphones. His stomach twists, thinking of the media circus that would follow, the inevitable questions the entire world would ask. He’s already shared so much of himself with the world; is he ready to share this, too?

Lydia is still looking at him, somehow managing to look sympathetic yet exasperated.

“I’ll let you know,” is all Scott says.

Lydia sizes him up for a moment, and then sighs. “Fine.” She pushes the magazines his way. “Until then, you are our strictly _hetero_ sweetheart of a front man, and I need you to be seen with her again.”

He eyes the magazines distastefully.

***

Scott wakes up feeling _awful_.

He’s nauseous and achey and his head feels like it’s gonna split open—he feels like a rag doll someone just picked up and shook. It isn’t until he hears Stiles bark, “Scott!” that he realizes the shaking isn’t in his head—Stiles is shaking him awake.

He groans to show that he’s alive, since that’s usually enough for Stiles, but when he doesn’t start moving, Stiles shakes him again. “C’mon, man, get up,” Stiles says, his voice high-pitched with stress. Scott lets one eye slit open, and when he only sees Stiles silhouetted against a storm-grey window, he lets it open fully.

Stiles looks like he feels as awful as Scott—as he should—but Scott also hasn’t seen him this nervous since the first time they went to the Grammys. “Dude,” Scott croaks, and Stiles flails in Scott’s general direction.

“Get up, dude, I think—fuck—” Stiles brandishes one hand, and Scott realizes he’s got his phone clutched in it. “I think we’re in trouble. Like, serious trouble.”

“Fuck,” Scott spits, struggling to push himself up and out of the bed, as Stiles walks over to the window, muttering curses.

Scott’s hand slips, and he nearly brains himself on the nightstand, only just catching himself with his hand before his head hits the ground. “Fuck,” he hisses, as his stomach lurches, head spinning with dizziness. He nearly gags on his own morning spit—that tastes a lot like stale cigarettes and _death_ —and just manages to swallow it back. When he’s semi-confident that he’s not going to puke, he lets his body sag over the side of the bed. The sheets, tangled around Scott’s legs, end up following him down as his whole body lands with a heavy thump.

“What the fuck, dude—are you okay?” Stiles says, rushing back over, but Scott just waves him off.

“M’fine,” Scott manages, “Jus’ gonna…lay here, for a second.” The nausea subsides slightly, but the throbbing in his head isn’t letting up. When he pushes himself up again, the world tilts wildly, and he lowers himself back to the ground.

He might still be a bit drunk.

There’s a repeated buzzing sound, echoing through his ears; it takes a second for Scott to realize that it’s not the sound of his forehead pulsing against the floor, but his phone, having somehow ended up under the bed. He reaches for it blindly, and by the time he gets his hand around the case, whoever had been calling him has been sent to voicemail.

With a groan, he drags the phone out from under the bed, and once he gets the phone the right way in his hand, he blearily thumbs in his passcode. Then he almost has a heart attack at the sheer number of missed _everything_ clogging up his notifications; he has fifty-three text messages, a dozen missed calls, four voicemails, and almost a hundred new e-mails. He doesn’t even know where to start.

“Holy shit,” he says dumbly, looking up at Stiles.  “What did we do?”

Stiles swoops down on him, shaking his head. “I dunno,” he says, hauling Scott’s arm over his shoulder and pulling him to his feet, “but I’m starting to think the Jaeger bombs might not’ve been the best idea.”

As Scott’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the shift in gravity and mention of Jaeger, his head feels like it’s swelling for a second, but then Stiles lets him sway back and sit back on the bed again. He clutches at his forehead, hoping some outward pressure will make it feel less like there was a bowling ball rattling around his head. “Definitely not the best idea,” he mutters.

He notices what looks like a huge hickey high on the inside of his thigh, and he pokes at it bluntly. He hisses at the sharp throb of pain, and makes a face at the ache that remains. He’s not sure when or how it happened, but it’s going to be around for a while.

Then he gets hit in the face with his own belt buckle when his jeans come flying at him. “Ow, fuck!”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, not sounding very sorry at all; he’s busy shoving on the Converse that he’d been wearing when they left the arena last night, his pants already pulled up but unbuttoned. “But we should probably get out of here, I don’t know if this is our room.”

This is the first time that Scott actually takes in his surroundings and realizes that they are definitely not in either of their suites. It’s just a standard hotel room, really, with two full beds, a desk in the corner, the bathroom by the door; everything is non-descript and unimpressive. It’s a lot like something they would have stayed in if they had a little extra money, all four of them together, back when they were first starting out.

Scott has just long enough to be baffled by all of this before there’s a loud pounding on the door.

Both of them pause. They catch each other’s eye, then look at the door, and in unison they call, “Who is it?”

“Who do you think?” comes Derek’s growl. They look back at each other, and then both leap into action, Stiles tripping over one of Scott’s boots as he rushes to open the door while Scott struggles back into his jeans, his head throbbing with every move he makes.

When he gets to the door, Stiles pauses just long enough to check and make sure Scott is decent, which is apparently a moment too long for Derek’s taste. He starts pounding on the door again, and Scott doesn’t care that his pants are unbuttoned and he doesn’t know where his shirt is, that noise needs to _stop_.

Stiles seems to be on the same page, because he hurriedly opens the door, nearly getting Derek’s fist to the face. He manages to dodge—mostly because Derek pulls it back before he gets too close—but is too slow to duck the open palm Derek slaps against the side of his head.

“Don’t you _ever_ give me the slip like that again,” Derek says gruffly as he brushes past Stiles and into the room, ignoring Stiles’ squawks. “Do you two have any idea what—” He stops short as he’s rounding on Scott. He takes in both of their relative states of undress—Scott still can’t find his shirt, and Stiles’ pants are still unbuttoned and sagging around his hips—and then looks over to the other bed in the room. Scott only just now notices that it is nearly pristine, rumpled slightly like someone might have laid on top of it at some point, but nowhere near the catastrophe that is the bed he rolled out of this morning.

Scott isn’t sure what happens in Derek’s brain, but he just blinks and then points at Scott. “Get dressed.” He turns to Stiles. “Get decent.”  He glances at his watch. “You have fifteen minutes starting now.” Then he turns on his heel and heads back out the door.

Now, Scott usually hates it when Derek gave them orders, but he gets the feeling it might be worth it this time.

“What does ‘get decent’ mean?” Stiles asks, while Scott lurches for his boot. Scott squints up at him, trying to see what Derek meant, and—yeah, okay. Stiles’ hair looks like he had crazy sex and then slept on it, his pants are _still_ unbuttoned, and his dark red shirt has a suspicious-looking white stain.

“Go look in the mirror,” is all Scott can say, waving his hand and attempting to shove his foot back into his boot. Stiles frowns, and then stalks into the bathroom, flicking the light on. It’s harsh and bright white, and Scott groans at the same time Stiles does.

Scott manages to get his foot in his boot at the same time Stiles says, “Ah, crap,” and then Scott hears him start the faucet. Chuckling a little, Scott manages to get his fingers to finish a sloppy bow and then leans back to half-heartedly search for his boot’s mate. When it doesn’t prove to be in his immediate vicinity, he gingerly lowers himself to the ground, hoping it’ll make the world stop spinning for a minute.

It doesn’t.

He’s still lying like that, holding his head so it won’t explode, when Stiles comes back out of the bathroom, his pants done up, hair wet, and shirt on inside out. He stops and gives Scott a pitying look. “You havin’ a little trouble there, buddy?” he asks patronizingly, and Scott lazily flips him off. Stiles makes a “tch” noise, then steps around Scott’s prone form to the other side of the bed.

“How are you not _dying_ ,” Scott moans, as Stiles bends over to pick something up from between the two beds. It turns out to be Stiles’ flannel and Scott’s other boot.

“I was puking my guts out for about an hour before I woke you up,” he says, dropping Scott’s boot onto his chest. Slowly, Scott struggles back up into a sitting position, while Stiles pulls on his flannel. Then Stiles just stands there, hands on his hips, as he watches Scott struggle with his other boot. When Scott has his shoe mostly on and is busy tying a bow, Stiles asks, “Where’s your shirt, dude?”

Scott looks around miserably. “I dunno.”

There are three sharp raps on the door. “You have five minutes!” Derek calls through, and with an exasperated sigh, Stiles starts to wriggle back out of the flannel.

“C’mon,” he says, nodding at Scott, who takes the prompt to struggle back up to his feet. He’s not graceful about it, but he manages it. Once he stabilizes, Stiles is already there next to him, holding out the shirt like a jacket.

Scott has only just managed to get both arms in when Derek raps on the door again. “Time to go, boys!”

“It has _not_ been five minutes,” Stiles mutters, fixing Scott’s collar while Scott starts buttoning from the bottom up. He only gets to just above his belly button when Derek pounds on the door again.

“Coming!” Stiles yells irritably, already moving toward the door. Scott follows him at a more sedate pace, checking his pockets to see if he’s missing anything important; he finds his phone, his wallet, and a few crumpled receipts from various bars. He doesn’t even look at those, not wanting to know how much he and Stiles wasted on booze the night before.

“You guys ready?” Derek asks gruffly as soon as Stiles opens the door. He pushes inside, making sure the door shuts behind him. He looks over both of them, and must deem them acceptable enough. “Good.” He checks his watch, then his phone, then begins to check around the room. For what, Scott doesn’t even know.

“Someone leaked your location about an hour ago,” Derek begins as he checks underneath the made up bed, “so we’re moving you out of here before it gets overrun with paps or fans or both.” He moves around to the messy bed and begins to shake out each layer of sheets, holding them gingerly as he investigates them thoroughly. “Lydia has informed me that you are both advised to not say anything.” Nothing falls out of any of the sheets, and he leaves them in a pile on the bed. Like an afterthought, he quickly tears the sheets of the other bed and leaves them in a pile, too. “We are going down the stairs, out the side door, and into the car. That’s all. No stopping.”

“Not even for fans?” Scott pouts. Even when there are a lot of them, even when it’s overwhelming and unreasonable to stop, even when he’s ridiculously hungover, Scott still likes to try to stop and say hello. It’s only fair; if it weren’t for them, the Foxes and the Hounds wouldn’t be anywhere close to where they were now.

“No,” Derek says sharply, popping up from checking under the bed. “There are officially no comments from any members of the band until we figure this out,” he adds as he rises smoothly.

“Figure _what_ out?” Scott asks as Derek sweeps past them to check the bathroom.

“What you two _idiots_ did last night!” Derek calls before he storms back out of the bathroom, his eyebrows thunderous. When he sees Scott and Stiles staring bemusedly back at him, his eyebrows get even worse. “Don’t tell me you don’t even _remember_ —”

Derek’s phone chirps, cutting him off, and he glares at them for a moment, until his hands come up of their own accord, making strangling motions in their general direction. Scott wants to be offended, but it would take too much energy. Finally, Derek shakes his head. “Just—don’t say anything, okay?”

Then he spins on his heel, and after a brief check, sweeps them out into the hall, the door closing with a quiet click behind them. As they follow him, Scott looks for Stiles’ eyes, but his eyes are on the ground, lip caught between his teeth.

All three of them are quiet as Derek leads them out through the hall, his eyes constantly darting around as if he’s expecting an assassin to come crawling out from behind a painting. They still don’t say anything as Derek bypasses the elevators and goes for the stairs; Scott opens his mouth, but then they begin descending the stairs at a quick trot, and Scott is too busy trying not to throw up or let his head explode to worry about anything else.

They lurch to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, Derek’s phone already to his ear. Scott gets a few moments to breathe in carefully through his mouth and out through his nose, fingers rubbing at his temples, before Derek turns back to them, sliding his phone into his pocket as he reaches for the handle of the fire escape door.

“No comments,” he reminds them. “To anyone.”

“No stopping, standing, or parking, we get it,” Stiles says. He gestures, a _can we go now?_ , and Derek narrows his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, however, instead choosing that moment to haul the door open.

It’s still overcast, but Scott is blinded anyway—although that may have been from the flash of half a dozen cameras going off at once. Instinctively, he raises his hand over his eyes, wishing he had his sunglasses. Boyd is there, tall and silent as ever, one hand beckoning them through to the large black SUV waiting for them, the other held out to keep the small crowd at bay. Scott keeps his hand up and his head down as they pass through, ignoring the questions yelled at them.

“No comment,” Scott hears Derek say gruffly, and then he and Stiles are shoved unceremoniously into the back of the SUV, Boyd following close behind them. The door closes with a firm snap, shutting out all sound, but Scott can still see the flashes and bright lights of the cameras as they surround the car.

“How many points if I hit one?” someone says from the front, and once he’s properly in a seat, Scott looks up to see Erica smirking back at him from the driver’s seat.

“Ten points if you hit ‘em, twenty-five if you break their camera,” Stiles says unenthusiastically, tipping his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. “Fifty points if you kill ‘em.”

“We’re not killing anybody,” Scott says automatically, as the front passenger door opens and Derek quickly hoists himself inside.

“Go,” he says quietly, the door barely shut behind him, and Erica revs the engine as a warning before actually putting the vehicle into drive. The paparazzi scatter easily enough, and she navigates the large vehicle with ease out of the lot and onto the street. The road takes them past the front entrance of the hotel, where an even bigger crowd has gathered to wait for them to emerge.

“Holy shit,” Scott says quietly.

“What even happened last night?” Stiles says, leaning forward to grab the back of Derek’s seat. “What did we _do_?”

Derek looks like he’s about to go through on throttling Stiles. “Right now the only thing that’s keeping me from killing you is the fact that you pay me to keep you alive,” Derek says, eyes like daggers on Stiles’ hands, and Stiles quickly releases his seat, slumping back into his own.

Scott watches Erica look into the rearview mirror to catch Boyd’s eyes, who had settled in the backmost row of seats. “Show ‘em,” she says, and Boyd sighs.

“Show us what?” Scott asks, watching as Boyd takes out a small tablet. The car is quiet as his fingers quickly work over the screen for a few moments, and then he turns to show them, a video already playing on the screen, but muted.

At first Scott doesn’t quite understand what he’s looking at; the video is dark, grainy and shaky, obviously taken with a phone. It seems to be some sort of club, with lights swinging everywhere and a lot of bodies pressed together. It isn’t until Stiles says, “Oh my god,” that Scott recognizes one of those bodies.

That’s Stiles, pressed up close and personal with another person, another _guy_ , Stiles grinding back into him and one of the guy’s hands in a possessive grip on Stiles’ hip. Their hips are completely in sync, following a dirty rhythm that doesn’t exactly match up with the other bodies dancing around them.

“It gets better,” Erica says, and Scott’s stomach twists as he continues watching.

The guy says something into Stiles’ ear, and Stiles smirks, lifting one hand to cup behind the guy’s head. Then Stiles turns his head, and the Stiles next to Scott lets out a breathed, “fuck,” as the Stiles on the screen starts kissing the other guy.

Scott’s stomach twists again, and suddenly, he remembers, he remembers seeing that. It’s hazy at first, but he remembers the club, remembers feeling exhilarated at the press of anonymous bodies, remembers the smell of sweat and fake fog, remembers the taste of liquor on his tongue as he turned from the bar and saw Stiles like that.

Stiles is quiet next to Scott, and he wonders if Stiles remembers what happens next any better than he does.

***

The music in this club is deafening, which is saying something, considering Scott does loud concerts for a living. It’s not his favorite environment, but he likes the way the bass thuds in his chest, stronger than his heartbeat.

He eyes the shot in front of him. He doesn’t know how many he’s had since they escaped from Derek and his security team, but Scott feels—fucking _great_ , so he figures one more couldn’t hurt. It goes down quick and easy, and he lets out an “ah” as he sets the glass back down. He just stands there and smiles at nothing for a moment or two, enjoying the floaty feeling coursing through his veins. Then he idly flicks the shot glass away from himself, sending it skidding a little across the top of the bar; the bartender grabs it without looking as she walks by.

He turns to lean back against the bar, propping himself on his elbows as he looks out over the crowd on the dance floor. He’d left Stiles there to go to the bathroom before he’d stopped by the bar, and he’s sure Stiles hasn’t gone far—

Scott should probably look the other way. It’s not like this is his first time seeing two dudes kiss—it’s not like he hasn’t seen Stiles do it before, like he hasn’t done it before himself—but he can’t stop watching as Stiles turns around, still kissing the stranger, pressing even closer to him. Scott frowns, because no, that’s wrong, wrong, not how it’s supposed to be at all.

There’s a churning in Scott’s gut that gets worse the longer he stands there; maybe he should drink some water.

Instead of turning around to ask for some, though, Scott finds himself moving away from the bar, eyes still on Stiles and his stranger. They’re not even really dancing anymore, just making out and grinding in the middle of the dance floor, and Scott has nothing on his mind but _stop, no, wrong, mine_ as he draws nearer.

His hand is fisted in the back of Stiles’ shirt before he even realizes he’s reached out for him, and Scott unceremoniously yanks Stiles out of the stranger’s grasp. Stiles stumbles a little, surprised and drunk; his mouth moves, but his cursing gets lost in the music.

Scott steadies him, one hand on his back, the other on his arm, and once Stiles looks up and sees that it’s Scott, his face turns from annoyed to positively joyous, breaking into a wide smile.

“Scott!” he shouts, tipping into Scott’s personal space, slinging an arm over Scott’s shoulders and generally plastering himself to Scott’s side. “I missed you!” he yells directly into Scott’s ear, making him wince. “You were gone so long!”

“Yeah, I—” Scott cuts off when he feels someone grab his shoulder, the one Stiles isn’t hanging from. It tips him off balance, and he nearly loses both of their footing as he spins to face the person attached to the hand. “Yo, what—”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” It’s the guy Stiles had been with, invading Scott’s personal space—not nearly as welcome as Stiles was—and looking very, very annoyed.

“This is Scott!” Stiles yells unhelpfully, detaching a bit from Scott to gesture at him proudly.

The guy doesn’t even acknowledge him; Scott definitely doesn’t feel any kind of remorse whatsoever for pulling Stiles away.

“Did you hear me?” the guy says, bringing his hands up and _shoving_ Scott.

For some reason, Scott is less stable without Stiles’ weight; he nearly loses his balance, accidentally bumping into someone behind him. “Shit, sorry!” he says quickly, grabbing at their hands apologetically. They wave him off, already over it, and he swings back to react to this guy _shoving him_ , but by the time he gets there, the guy is down on the floor, and Stiles is shaking out his hand.

“What the— _Stiles_ —”

He grabs Stiles and _pulls_ , and Stiles teeters after him. His momentum pushes Scott into a run, and then he and Stiles are suddenly booking it out of the club. It probably isn’t necessary; there were really only half a dozen people who had noticed anything happening, and their attempts to dodge through the crowd only draws more attention, but they’re both laughing when they spill outside.

They don’t stop running until they’re a few blocks away, when Stiles tugs on the back of Scott’s shirt and says, “Okay, okay, I’m gonna throw up, stop.”

Scott slams to a halt, the world tilting wildly as he does so, while Stiles takes a few yards to slow down gradually, finally coming to a halt near an alley. Scott walks to him, panting and clutching his stomach, maybe even wheezing a little, while Stiles stands there with his hands on his head, chest heaving as he laughs and pants heavily.

“Did you _have_ to punch that guy?” Scott pants as he leans against the nearest wall.

“He pushed you,” Stiles says easily, letting his arms drop and coming to stand next to Scott.

Scott rolls his eyes, still needing a second to catch the rest of his breath. Stiles eventually tips a little, until he’s leaning his shoulder against the wall, right next to Scott’s. He can feel Stiles’ heat bleeding into him through the fabric of their shirts, and finds himself leaning into it a little.

“Sorry,” Scott says after a minute, when he can hear the sounds of the city over his breaths again.

“For what?”

Stiles moves closer, and Scott’s arm instinctively wraps around his waist. The back of his shirt is damp with sweat, and Scott rubs the hem of it between his fingers out of habit.

“For…interrupting,” he says, making a helpless gesture with his free hand back in the direction they came. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. You were having a good time, and I ruined it—”

“What? No, you’re—that wasn’t—” His hand flops a little on Scott’s chest, and Scott gently wraps a hand around his wrist to steady it, his fingers completely covering Stiles’ tattoo briefly as he settles Stiles’ hand. It ends up splayed across Scott’s chest, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against Scott’s collarbone. “I’m glad you found me,” he says finally, all five points of his fingers digging in for a brief moment before going back to their tapping.

Scott huffs and settles more comfortably between Stiles and the wall. “Then…good, I guess.”

Tipping his head down, Stiles rolls his forehead back and forth a couple of times across Scott’s shoulder. His hair tickles at Scott’s cheek a little, but he doesn’t mind.

Then Stiles lifts his head and says, “That guy was an asshole.”

Scott laughs, probably too loud, right in Stiles’ ear.

“I can’t believe I was kissing _him_ ,” Stiles moans, letting his forehead drop against Scott’s shoulder again. “Felt all wrong anyway.” He clenches his hand in Scott’s shirt, then mumbles something that gets lost in the space between their chests.

“What was that?” Scott asks, but Stiles just mumbles again. He nudges his shoulder under Stiles’ head a few times, _speak up_ , until Stiles groans, then loudly says, “I’d rather have been kissing _you_.”

“Yeah?” Scott says, laughing a little. At some point his hand had braced itself across Stiles’ back under his shirt, and he finds himself stroking the skin there because it feels nice under his fingers.

“Yeah.” He nuzzles further into Scott, pressing his front flush against Scott’s side. He runs his nose up Scott’s neck to his cheek, his breath tickling against Scott’s jaw as he says, “I think I’d always rather be kissing you.”

Scott swallows. “Yeah?” he says again, but this time his voice is breathless, cracking a bit. Stiles nods, just barely, and drags his mouth across Scott’s cheek. Scott swallows heavily, breathing in shakily. He lets his mouth open around the words “me too,” and turns his head slightly. Their mouths—

There’s a sudden clattering down the alley, and Stiles springs back from Scott like he’s been electrocuted, stumbling over the cat that streaks out into the street. He windmills as he tries to catch his balance, and Scott rushes forward to catch him. It’s not enough, though, Stiles already past the point of no return, Scott too unbalanced to do anything but fall with him, and they land in a tangled, breathlessly surprised heap on the sidewalk.

After a second, Stiles breaks the silence with a loud, “What the fuck.”

Scott cracks up.

He’s quickly joined by Stiles, his body a small earthquake under Scott’s. He nearly tips off onto the sidewalk, and he jerks, trying to shoot out his arm but finding it trapped between them. But then Stiles’ arm comes up around his back, his knee hooks around Scott’s, and the shaking mostly dies down.

They just lay there for a minute, just breathing, breathing, breathing. Different sounds catch Scott’s interest: a passing car the next block over; trash scuttling along in the breeze blowing down the alley; Stiles’ heartbeat, quick but steady under Scott’s ear. He almost wants to try kissing Stiles again, but at the same time, he likes this just fine.

Stiles exhales loudly, almost a sigh, and his breath tickling across Scott’s ear makes him shiver.

“You’re cold,” Stiles says, even though Scott isn’t, how could he be, pressed against Stiles like this, but Stiles goes on, “We should find someplace to warm up.”

“Okay,” he says stupidly, because Stiles is shifting anyway, releasing Scott so he can move.

Taking his time, Scott rolls off him, the arm that had been trapped between them tingling when he moves it. He lays there, working the feeling back into it, as Stiles wobbles to his feet.

“C’mon, I need a cigarette,” he says, nudging Scott’s foot with his own and offering a hand.

Scott takes the hand, even though Stiles isn’t really all that much help. “Weren’t you quitting?”

“Eh.” He slings an arm over Scott’s shoulder, and they stagger off into the night.

***

Scott sniffs as he listens to the phone ring in his ear, waiting for his mom to pick up.

His mom has always been there, since they were playing with duct-taped guitar straps in basements and garages; she had helped him through every important moment of his life. She would know what to do.

“Scott?” she answers, sounding groggy, disoriented. Like she just woke up.

“Hey Mom,” he whispers, a wave of guilt crashing over him; he can picture her, all alone in her big bed, groping for the switch on the lamp next to her bed. With a jolt remembers that it’s mostly constructed from a memory he has from when he was seven and had woken her up in the middle of the night after he’d had a nightmare. “Sorry I woke you up,” he says, and wonders if he sounds like a little boy.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, the last word cracking around a yawn. She sighs, and Scott can see her rubbing at her eyes in his mind. He suddenly misses his mother something fierce, and his eyes prickle.

“I miss you,” he says, voice sounding small.

She sounds more alert when she replies, “I miss you too, honey.” When Scott doesn’t say anything for a moment, she adds gently, “Was there a reason you wanted to tell me this at…one-thirty-two in the morning?”

He presses away the tears in the corners of his eyes and sniffs. “No, I—that’s not why I called, actually.” She waits him out, until he blurts, “Have you ever done something that you thought was best for everyone, but then it turns out that all you did was make everyone miserable?”

She breathes in sharply. “Sweetie—”

He continues over her, unable to help himself. “And you start to think that—that maybe it really wasn’t for the best of everyone, but just the best for you, because you were kind of terrified of what would happen?” He breathes in shakily. “And so you took the safe way out, but—then things get shitty anyway, so you start to think that—that maybe all those things you were scared of, couldn’t be any worse than it is now.”

“…What exactly is this about?”

Scott sighs miserably as he uses his hat to scrub at his hair. “Do you think I should have come out when Stiles did?”

His mom is very quiet for a few moments, and for a second, Scott thinks he’s dropped the call. He checks his phone—he still has four bars, and it’s still counting the seconds of their conversation—and puts it back up to his ear. “Mom?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” she says quickly. “Sorry. I just…I don’t think there’s any kind of ‘should’ around coming out, y’know? If anything, it’s just that you should come out when you’re ready, whenever _you_ decide that is. It doesn’t matter if it’s tomorrow, or next year, or in ten years.” She pauses for a moment, probably to let it sink in. “Now, is there something that prompted this?”

“This, what?”

She sighs, a little more than exasperated. “Why are you up thinking about this when it’s four a.m., and you’ve got your last show in New York tomorrow?”

Scott hopes his shrug translates vocally as he says, “I dunno.”

“Scott…” she warns, and he breaks down easily.

“Stiles is avoiding me,” he rushes out. There’s a long pause, and then Scott hears what is unmistakably a _giggle_. “ _Mom_ ,” he whines, and she giggles _again_.

“Sorry, honey,” she says, not sounding very sorry at all. “But Stiles? Avoiding you?” He can practically hear her roll her eyes. “The boy can hardly go twenty-four hours without talking to you. Remember that time I grounded you from him and he still managed to sneak into the house? Before you had even gotten home from school?”

Scott does remember that, and he remembers every other time Stiles has refused to talk to him for some reason or another. It was rare that it lasted more than a day unless otherwise enforced, but here they were, nearly three weeks later.

“We haven’t really spoken since the VMA’s,” Scott says flatly. “When he told me he needs a break from the band.” _From me_ , he almost adds. “He won’t even be alone in the same room with me anymore if he can help it.”

His mom is quiet for a moment, before letting out a soft, “Oh.”

Scott swallows and scrubs a hand across his forehead. “Yeah.”

There’s a moment, and then his mom says very seriously, “Scott, I need you to be very honest with me right now.”

He blinks. “…Okay.”

“Do you love Stiles?”

“Of course,” he says instantly. It’s one of the many things he knows without even thinking about it, just like the fingering for a G chord, or that his mom’s birthday is May twenty-seventh.

After clicking her tongue at him, she amends, “I mean, are you _in love_ with Stiles?”

She makes it sound like she’s asking a whole different question, like it’s a whole different part of him that has to be reached, but his answer is the same. “Of course.”

“Does Stiles love—is he in love with you?”

Scott shrugs, even though she can’t see him. “I think so.”

“You _think_ so?”

“The last I knew, he was, maybe. Or he at least—we were on the same page, alright? We both…we figured out that we wanted to be together. But the video had also just leaked, and they were on our asses, kept telling us where to go and who to be with, and then they told us not to be so—so—”

“So…you?” she prompts, and he nods frantically.

“Yeah! Because apparently giving your best friend a hug is inappropriate when one of you likes dick. And it’s just…” He sighs, sweeps his hat off his head so he can run his hand through his hair. “It’s just all fucked up now, y’know?”

“Sounds like it,” his mother says, only slightly condescending. Scott groans, flopping backwards; it sends the chair he’s in tipping semi-dangerously. He catches himself on the desk before he goes ass up, and his mom starts speaking again. “And it sounds like you and Stiles need to sit down and have a bit of a talk.”

Scott groans again, and his mom sighs. “Listen, baby, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I think you already know what you want and what you want to do. You need to just go with your gut and _do_ it.”

“But—”

She continues over him. “So what we’re gonna do is go to bed. You’re gonna call me—or even better, come _visit me_ , you guys get a break after this, don’t you? _—_ over the next few days, and tell me all about your last show, okay?”

Sighing heavily, Scott replies sullenly, “Fine.”

“I love you,” she says, very seriously. “Always have and always will, you know that, right?”

He feels another bittersweet pang of missing his mother, and the next time he sees her, he’s gonna hug her for _days_. “Yeah. I love you too, Mom.”

“Good,” she says, and then yawns. “Now go to _sleep_.”

They say goodbye, and Scott sets his phone on the desk after he hangs up. It glows at him for a second, displaying the time: four-fifty-eight. His alarm goes off in three hours. With a groan, he lurches out of the chair and crosses the room to the bed, flopping down face-first.

Maybe things will be better in the morning.

***

Scott’s ears are ringing as he steps up to the mic.

“Thank you so much, New York!” he shouts, and he’s rewarded with another blast of cheers.  “You guys are always awesome, thanks so much for having us and helping us close out this tour, it’s been amazing!”

There’s more cheering, and right now is where he should either be leading them off-stage or into an encore, but instead he lets go of his guitar, letting it swing from its strap as he holds his hands out for some quiet. It takes a second, but then he glances over to Isaac, who steps up to his own mic.

“Hey, shut the fuck up. Our fearless leader has something to say!”

“There’s no need to be rude,” Scott admonishes, but he’s smiling, and then he turns back to the crowd. “He’s right though, I wanna level with you guys for a second.”

It doesn’t take long for quiet after that—or at least, as quiet as a stadium can be. He looks out across the crowd, spies at least a dozen cell phones up in the first few rows alone. He hopes at least one of them is recording.

“So,” he says, putting his hands on the mic to stop them from shaking. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, trying to figure out where he wants to begin. He looks out at all of them—and even though they’ve been doing this for years now, he’s still awed by all of these people that love them.

“You guys are awesome, you know that?” he begins. There’s another wave of cheers, but he continues over it, wiping sweat from his forehead. “If it wasn’t for you, the fans, we’d all probably still be playing in Stiles’ dad’s garage.” There’s laughter, and he grins a little as he continues. “But instead we’re _here_.” He holds his hands out, like they could encompass the sheer enormity of their success. “And I wanna thank you, from the absolute bottom of my heart,” he taps at his chest for emphasis, “for supporting us and believing in us, even when times get rough.”

There’s more cheering, Stiles even joining in by crashing on his cymbals, but Scott holds out his hands again, starts talking before they’ve all gone quiet.

“So, it’s because of that, your support and your belief in us, that I wanna say something. Something—kinda important.”

The stadium is suddenly near-silent. He can feel every single one of the thousands of eyes on him; he’s even got the band’s attention now, because this wasn’t scripted at all.

He clears his throat, grabs onto the mic stand again to keep himself steady. “So I think I should apologize to you guys, first, because I haven’t been honest with you. That’s super shitty, especially when you guys have been so good to us.” He looks at his hands, instead of the crowd. “But it’s come to the point where—it’s not fair to you, or me, or anyone else in the band.”

“You’re not leaving the band, are you?” some girl in the front row yells, and he laughs, unable to help himself.

“No, I’m not leaving the band,” he says, smiling down at her. She gives him an exaggerated look of relief, and he winks before looking back out at the crowd. “No, it’s nothing like that, okay, you can all relax.” The crowd laughs, and he smiles again. “No, I just—okay, I made this probably a bigger deal than it actually is. But I owe it to you.”

He stops for a second, looking down at his hands, still wrapped tight around the mic stand. “It just feels right, to tell you guys like this. Even though there are thousands of us, I still feel like we’re one big family, y’know? And families need to be honest with each other.”

“The thing is,” he says, and the crowd is murmuring now, the noise swelling under him as he finally spits out: “I’m bi.”

And the crowd explodes.

***

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Stiles says. He rests an elbow on the window, covering his down-turned mouth with his hand, and doesn’t elaborate, fingers of his other hand tapping restlessly against the middle seat between them.

He looks tired. His waistcoat is wrinkled and unbuttoned over a half-tucked shirt, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up to his elbows; his hair has lost most of its lift, ruffled and drooping over his forehead. The bags under his eyes are puffier than usual, a little dark, and the glassiness in his eyes isn’t just from the alcohol at the after party. The yellow light of passing streetlights makes him look sallow and washed out.

As the silence stretches, Scott realizes he’s staring, and quickly clears his throat, looking out his own window at the passing city. “Do what?”

“This,” Stiles definitely doesn’t clarify, but Scott is pretty sure he knows what he means. Stiles sighs again, sliding down in his seat, his legs spreading as he presses them against the seat in front of him. Their driver looks back through the mirror, but doesn’t say anything. Scott wishes the guy would turn on some music.

Instead, the silence stretches further, and Scott shifts uncomfortably, pulling at his pant legs. Stiles’ fingers are still tapping on the seat; it takes everything Scott has to resist the urge to trap them under his palm.

“It’s just…”

Scott doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. He glances over, and Stiles is still staring out the window.

“It’s just hard. Harder than I thought.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He sets his hand on the seat between them, palm up, an invitation. Stiles either doesn’t see it or ignores it.

“I might need a break, after the tour ends.”

Scott’s heart stops. “What?”

Stiles shakes his head, and his fingers tap more incessantly at the seat between them. Before Scott can reach out to grab them, Stiles suddenly moves, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a severely-crumpled box of Camels. Scott watches as he fumbles with it, opening it to reveal three sad-looking cigarettes and a mini lighter.

“I just need a break,” Stiles says as he digs out what he needs. “I can’t—I’m not like you,” he says as he puts the cigarette in his mouth, “I can’t just—” He waves the lighter vaguely. He lets out an exasperated noise, shaking his head sharply before lighting up. He inhales quickly, rolling the window down an inch to exhale out of it. “It—” He shrugs. “It would just be a lot easier if you were in it with me, I guess. I just—I thought we were in this, you and me. Together.”

“We are, man. You and me, always. I can’t do this without you.” _I can’t do anything without you,_ he tries to say, but Stiles still isn’t even looking at him.

When he speaks, it’s like Scott didn’t say anything. “I need to figure some things out. And since it looks like they’re not gonna let us be together, maybe it would be best to…actually be apart.”

Scott sits there in stunned silence for a second, while Stiles takes a nervous puff of his cigarette. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Okay.”

Flicking his ash irritably out the window, Stiles makes a face like _really? That’s it?_

Scott lets out an exasperated noise. “What do you want from me, Stiles? What am I supposed to say?”

Finally, Stiles looks at him, looking taken aback for a second. There’s a brief flash of hurt, and then his face closes off completely before he chuckles to himself, turning back to look out the window. “I dunno. Nothing, I guess.”

The silence after that stretches on long enough that the driver finally turns on the radio.

***

Scott has never been more thankful that only the four of them were allowed in the dressing room directly after a show. It was a tradition they’d started early on in their careers, meeting in the van to change or smoke or just check in with each other before heading back into the venue. When they got to the point where they actually got dressing rooms, the habit had stuck, but it was rarely enforced unless they had to keep a clingy girlfriend at bay. And it had come in handy later on when they’d needed to have discussions together without their annoying band manager trying to steer the conversation.

Lydia had swooped in once they’d spilled backstage and had dragged him off to give him a stern talking-to and a hug, so Scott ends up being the last one to make it to the dressing room. He searches out Stiles first out of habit, finds him propped against the wall near the corner, his legs crossed at the ankle, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping a restless beat against his elbow.  When he doesn’t look up, Scott drags his eyes away.

Isaac has perched himself on the counter under the long line of mirrors along the back wall, his long legs in the seat of a chair. He’s taken his headscarf out and is mostly just idly raking his fingers through his sweaty curls; he throws Scott a lazy two-fingered salute when he sees him looking.

Meanwhile, Kira has draped herself sideways across an armchair, doing something on her phone. Her heeled sneakers are scattered directly under her feet, and her hair is in a loose bun now. She looks up, sees Scott, and grins. She throws her arms up, and when he doesn’t make a move, she rolls her eyes and beckons him over. As soon as he’s close enough, she grabs his arm and yanks him down into a hug.

“That was so awesome,” she says, and Scott chuckles as he buries his nose into her shoulder. “I’m so fucking proud of you,” she adds as he uses the chair to push himself back up.

“You’re not mad? I know I probably should’ve run it by you guys first—” He looks at Isaac, who gives him a smile around a cigarette, and lets his eyes flick to Stiles, who hasn’t moved, before looking back at Kira. “But I dunno, it just. Felt right.”

“Congrats,” Isaac says as he lights his cigarette. He breathes in, and white smoke leaks out of his mouth when he adds, “Maybe it’ll trend on Twitter.”

Scott rolls his eyes, but Isaac is smirking and Scott can’t help but grin at him. He crosses around Kira’s chair, opening his arms for a hug even as he’s shaking his head, and Isaac turns on his perch to receive the embrace.

Isaac pats him heartily on the back when they come together; he’s a little sticky, smelling like sweat and smoke, but Scott squeezes him close. “That was pretty sweet,” Isaac mumbles around his cigarette.

Scott chuckles, rubbing his thumb along the line of Isaac’s shoulderblade. “Thanks.”

They stay like that for a few moments, until suddenly Isaac moves, plucking the cigarette from his lips and turning his head until his mouth is next to Scott’s ear. He’s close enough that when he speaks next, in little more than a whisper, it tickles the sensitive skin of Scott’s neck. “I’m glad you came around.”

“Me too,” Scott murmurs back, and Isaac gives his back one more pat before releasing him.

“Can I talk to you?” Stiles says suddenly. He’s still not looking at Scott; he’s not looking at anything. “Alone?”

Isaac raises an eyebrow at Scott, but Scott waves him off, while Kira gets up. “Sure, no problem,” she says, slipping her feet back into her shoes, and then she turns to Stiles. “You okay?”

When nobody responds to her, Stiles perks up, suddenly focusing his gaze instead of staring off into the middle distance. Scott watches his eyes flick from Kira to Scott and back again, and then Stiles nods. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just—need to talk to Scott.”

She nods, then walks over to give him a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the shoulder. She says something that Scott can’t hear that makes Stiles’ eyes flick over, but then she’s pulling back, smiling encouragingly, and heads for the door. Isaac steps around Scott to join her, and then they’re both slipping out the door.

There’s silence for a few moments, and Scott takes cautious steps in Stiles’ direction. “So—”

“You mother _fucker_ ,” Stiles says, shoving Scott hard enough that he hits the wall. Scott makes himself comfortable there, while Stiles starts pacing, barely two steps in front of him. “I can’t believe you—you just did that, why did you just do that?”

Scott shrugs. Stiles’ eyes narrow, and his sputtering gets even worse, only managing single words. Eventually he just mimes strangling Scott, growling, and Scott raises an eyebrow. _You done?_

Stiles sighs, shaking his head. He scrubs a hand through his hair, rubs at his forehead with the heel of his palm, and then gestures to Scott in a _go ahead_ motion.

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” Scott begins; “but I just—I’d been thinking about it a lot, lately. I’m sick of—I don’t get—” He grabs Stiles’ wrist, and is surprised by the lack of resistance he gets when he pulls Stiles closer. “I miss you,” he says, settling one hand on Stiles’ waist, a finger curled in his belt loop. He keeps the other wrapped around Stiles’ wrist and traces his thumb over the inked skin on the back of his wrist.

Stiles scoffs. “So, what, you thought you had to come out in front of thousands of people to get my attention?”

“I didn’t do it _just_ for you,” Scott says quietly, shrugging again, and Stiles’ face goes soft. “It was just…time, y’know?”

Stiles nods, swallowing heavily as he sways in closer; Scott spreads his legs slightly, just enough for Stiles’ thigh to fit between them. Stiles sags a little, bracing his free arm over Scott’s shoulder, and now there’s hardly any space between them. Scott’s body, still buzzing, can feel every brush of Stiles’ body against him. They haven’t been close like this since Australia. Maybe Brazil.

“I didn’t—” Stiles starts. He looks down at their hands, the tattoo Scott gave him. “I didn’t go anywhere. Been right here, the whole time.”

“I know, that’s been the worst _part,_ ” Scott says with a groan, pulling Stiles flush against him, wrapping his arm around Stiles’ back and pressing their foreheads together. “You’ve been here but not _here_.”

“My apologies for my lack of proximity,” he replies archly. “ _Someone_ suggested I keep my distance.”

“I’m sorry,” he says instantly, clenching his hand in Stiles’ sweat-damp shirt. “I shouldn’t have listened to them, that was stupid—”

He cuts off when Stiles presses their lips together. It’s brief and chaste, but it’s their first in months, and Scott is hyper-aware of every millisecond of it: the way Stiles’ lips feel against his, the way his hand clenches around Scott’s, the tiny relieved sigh that Stiles lets out when he pulls his mouth back, pressing their foreheads together again.

“Missed you too.” He twists his hand out of Scott’s grip, but is instantly back, threading their fingers together instead.

Then Scott can’t take it anymore and he pushes forward, pressing their lips together again. This one is neither brief nor chaste, quickly devolving into open mouths and heavy panting. With his free hand, Scott grips Stiles’ waist for dear life while Stiles’ hand keeps roaming, running through Scott’s hair, cupping the back of his neck, cradling his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Scott says again, when their mouths separate for a brief moment before kissing him again. “Really, I—”

“Me too,” Stiles says, shaking his head even as he kisses Scott again. “I know, I—just—” He releases Scott’s hand, and Scott feels the loss for a brief moment before Stiles brings it up to cradle Scott’s jaw and pull him into another kiss, sweet and sound. _Keep kissing me_.

It’s too easy for Scott to comply, settling his other hand on Stiles’ waist and pulling him in, even though there’s nowhere for him to go.

Somehow Stiles finds it, though, pushing down and in with his hips; oh god, Stiles is half-hard and _grinding_ into his _hip_ , and it’s so good, already. Scott had fucking _missed_ this.

He pushes his hands under Stiles’ shirt, just because he always likes the way Stiles’ skin feels. The skin that stretches across the small of Stiles’ back is damp, almost slick, and Scott presses harder to get a better grip. It makes Stiles break away from kissing Scott to gasp and grind down involuntarily.

“Dude, I don’t think—oh god—god, I hate you—” Stiles pants between kisses, as he rocks more insistently against Scott. “How is this—fucking—fuh— _fuck_ —”

Scott only realizes they’re halfway down the wall when the angle of their legs makes Stiles knock his knee against it, his rhythm thrown off when he winces.

And then Scott gets a _brilliant_ idea. He pulls his mouth away from Stiles’ with a wet, gasping sound, and he gets distracted, for a second, by the red shine of Stiles’ mouth. It’s enough of a pause that Stiles moves in to kiss him again, and Scott only manages to pant out, “Hang on, let’s—”

He drags his hand over Stiles’ ass and down the back of his thigh, finally stopping near his knee. He tugs, and Stiles lets him pull his leg out from between Scott’s thighs and over Scott’s leg. “Yeah?”

“Sure, fuck, let’s—” He cuts off when Scott slides the rest of the way down the wall, dragging Stiles with him. They land with a shared gasp, Stiles in Scott’s lap.

“I swear to God,” Stiles pants, as Scott uses his grip on Stiles to get him moving again, “if we get inter—”

“Don’t jinx it,” Scott hisses, and then figures the best way to stop him is to just kiss him again. (Also, Scott just really wanted to kiss Stiles again. He thinks he’d like to find a way to be always kissing Stiles.)

It’s too little, too late, though, because no sooner has Stiles started moving semi-coordinately, there’s a harsh knocking on the door.

Stiles whips his head around so fast Scott ends up kissing Stiles’ ear for a second. “Fuck off!” Stiles yells, and the door opens a crack.

Derek’s head pokes in through the gap, but he’s pointedly not looking in their direction. “The car for the hotel is leaving in ten minutes.”

“Couldn’t you have told us in _five minutes_?” Stiles groans, dropping his forehead onto Scott’s shoulder. “I was so _close_.”

That was probably meant only for Scott’s ears, but by the way Derek clears his throat before speaking, he definitely heard as well. “I figured I should warn you guys. There’s gonna be a lot of paps and a lot of fans.” Derek’s eyes finally flick over to them, and Scott tries not to look too guilty with a lapful of Stiles. Derek cocks an eyebrow, then looks back at the wall. “You need to look presentable,” he adds, just in case they hadn’t gotten it yet. “I’ll be back to move you closer to the doors in five minutes.”

Stiles waits until the door is shut behind him to groan, “I. Hate. Everything,” into Scott’s chest.

“Hey, think of it this way,” Scott says hopefully, still reluctant to pull his hands away from Stiles. “If we wait until we get back to the hotel, I have lube.” Stiles face says he’s considering it, but he also rocks his hips into Scott. He’s still hard. “There’s also a bed?” Scott throws out.

“Is it a king _?_ ”

“Sure,” Scott says, and then he’s suddenly bereft, Stiles’ weight completely gone as Stiles begins to stand.

“Well, c’mon,” Stiles says, offering a hand once he’s standing over Scott, the other arm braced against the wall. He’s at the completely wrong angle to help Scott in any way, but Scott takes it anyway.

***

Four-thirty in the morning is probably too early for Scott to be calling Lydia, but he figures that even if she’s asleep, he can just leave a message. It’s just that his phone will probably die before he wakes up, and he’d rather not leave the bed for the next twenty-four hours unless it’s for some kind of bodily function, so he’d rather tell Lydia what he wants now, rather than get a barrage of messages tomorrow.

When Lydia answers promptly with, “Scott, hey, listen, I’ve got the usual who want to hear from you…” Scott is somewhat surprised.

“How did you know it was me?” he blurts, and Lydia pauses in her listing of some of the affiliates who had already called for comments and interviews.

“I have caller ID,” she reminds him, none-too-gently. He blinks, then opens his mouth, but she starts talking again. “Now, I was thinking we could start with—”

“I don’t want to talk to any of them,” Scott interrupts, and Lydia is silent for a moment.

Only for a moment, though. “A video, then,” she says decisively. “Everyone loves coming out videos—”

“No,” Scott says, and she stops again. “I want to do an exclusive with Danny,” he says quickly, before she can start talking again.

“Danny?” she says skeptically.

Scott perks up when Stiles emerges from the bathroom, yawning into his hand and wearing a pair of Scott’s shorts. “Yeah, Mahealani?” Scott says around a grin as Stiles crawls into bed, ducking under Scott’s arm that had been resting on his stomach. He settles into a loose-limbed sprawl over Scott’s chest, and when he sighs, Scott can smell his own cinnamon toothpaste on Stiles’ breath.

“Is there another Danny?” she drawls, as Scott hears the rapid clicking of fingers on a keyboard.

“I dunno,” he replies distractedly, pushing his fingers through Stiles’ hair. Stiles gives him a short, pleased hum in return. “Probably, somewhere.” He’s glad she knew which one he meant, though.

Danny and Scott had known each other back in high school. He had actually been the first person to interview Scott and Stiles for anything music related, when he’d done an article about them for the school newspaper when they had won a Battle of the Bands hosted by the school. (Scott’s mom still had a clipping of it somewhere.) He had been a consistent reviewer and photojournalist of them over the years, always devoting a blog post (on an increasingly successful music review blog) to their shows when he could make them.

He had been on the freelance music circuit for a while as The Foxes and The Hounds were starting out, and some of Scott’s favorite interviews had been with him. Danny knows how to ask questions without making Scott feel like he has to sell himself like a piece of meat or as a part of a machine.

It probably helps that they’re kind of friends, too.

“I just don’t know how available he is,” Lydia finally says. “Last I heard he was in London.”

“Even better,” Scott says, hoping the time difference will actively fuck them over for a little while.  He’s ready to sleep, for a _really_ long time.

There’s a pause, just long enough that Scott is pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes. “I’ll call you back when I’ve got him.” Then she abruptly ends the call.

Scott huffs as he pulls the phone away from his ear, checking how much battery he’s got left. “Twelve percent,” he whispers to himself. “Okay…”

It’s enough that if he turns it on silent instead of vibrate and doesn’t touch it for the rest of the night, he’ll have enough to see any calls or messages he gets, but not really return them without making the conversation really short. But maybe he’ll be more inclined to get up in the morning to get his charger?

He looks down again at Stiles, who is slack-jawed and bare-chested against him, and no, he’s really not gonna wanna get up for a _while_.

So he makes the executive decision to just turn it off, not bothering to check if his logic is flawed or not when he figures at least this way, he’ll be able to turn it back on and return at least one call. Lydia is the only person he'd consider worth it, anyway.

Once the screen goes black, he drops the phone on the bedside table. He tries to move as little as possible to reach for the switch on the lamp, and ends up blinking at the sudden darkness with his arm oddly outstretched when he manages it. When he settles, Stiles seems to think it’s still comfortable enough, because he doesn’t really move, his body slack against Scott’s.

Scott almost thinks Stiles has already fallen asleep, if not for Stiles idly tracing his fingers over one of Scott’s tattoos. He’s hyperaware of it; he feels like he’s hyperaware of everything Stiles does, especially when they touch. He doesn’t know which to dread more: the day he gets used to it, or never getting used to it at all.

He’s kind of rooting for never getting used to it at all, though.

They just lie together in silence for a while, with nothing but the sounds of their breathing and the air conditioning. Eventually, Stiles’ fingers begin to slow against Scott’s skin.

“M’gonna pass out now,” Stiles whispers suddenly. There’s a kissing noise—he’s apparently too lazy to even attempt to kiss any part of Scott, much less turn his head to kiss him on the mouth—and then he whispers, “Love you.”

It’s not the first time Stiles has said it tonight, but Scott’s heart speeds up anyway. “Love you too,” he whispers back carefully.

Stiles makes a content noise, and then somehow goes even more boneless—and heavy—across Scott. “Night,” he whispers, and then he’s asleep, his hand going lax against Scott and his breaths evening out.

For a second, Scott is very still, not sure how that happened so quickly. Then, chuckling to himself, he relaxes back into the bed, trying to get comfortable. They’ve passed out on each other in many different circumstances, so he knows they’ll both stay like this all night; his arm is going to fall asleep, and Stiles will probably wake up with a crick in his neck.

But then again, the last time he shared a bed with Stiles, he woke up wrapped around Stiles’ back. He wouldn’t mind if _that_ happened again. However, he’s also about a hundred and eleven percent sure that he won’t care what way he wakes up next to Stiles.

So long as he’s _waking up next to Stiles_.

***

When Scott realized that he was in love with his best friend in the entire world, he imagined a lot of scenarios for the two of them. Some of them were dumb, and most of them were all different versions of Scott having sex and/or making music with Stiles for the rest of their lives, in some way or another. Yet, in all of those imaginings, he’d never quite managed this.

“This,” being teased by Stiles, quietly putting his hands and mouth all over Scott’s body as Scott gives Danny an interview over the phone.

It’s a rush, to say the least.


End file.
